Blood makes noise by Suzanne Vega:
Blood makes noise
It's ringing in my ear
And I can't really hear you
In the thickening of fear

Blood makes noise pt. 1

Osamu Dazai is scared all the time.

He is scared and in pain and it's been that way for as long as he can remember. But, it has definitely been a lot worse these last three months after the incident at the Shinja church then what it has been in a really long time.

There's a feeling of fragileness he can't seem the shake off. Like, he's about to burst at the seems any minute.

He'll hide it publicly, behind a cheeky grin as he seeks after an outlet from the cripling anxiety through snarky comments and a completely excessive amount of neediness.

His un-relentless self-destructiveness is fueled with the exasperated looks of his co-workers and Kunikida's naturally abusive nature towards him.

The worse he feels on the inside, the worse he gets on the outside and he knows that he is addicted to the negative attention.

Sometimes it's the only thing that keeps him from resorting to more drastic measures. But usually, it doesn't really, at all. Because he needs the pain.

It's a clishè really, to assert physical pain to distract oneself from the physiological, but it's the only thing that seems to help when he gets like this. Too nervous and itchy and restless and uneasy.

Ever since his Mafia days, he's been drugged out on sedatives and anxiolytics. Nothing has ever really worked as well as pure concentrated physical agony. It calms his nerves when he can focus on the hurt he can see- instead of the constant nervousness he feels in his chest and abdomen that doesn't amount to anything except a promise of uncontrollable panic later when he finally locks the door to his dorm behind him.

«Can you stop that?» Kunikida growls agitated.

Confused, Dazai hums dumbly. What had he done this time?

«You're shaking the entire desk!» Kunikida continues in the same hostile tone, giving an annoyed nod towards their facing desks.

Oh.

He realizes that his feet are vigorously trembling again. Or more accurately, foot, as his broken one hasn't healed to the point of exercising his neurotic tick just yet. Only the familiar tingling of none-movement lingering in his toes.

Restless leg syndrome, he knows.

Tryingly, he stretches his limbs under his desk, smirking as he feels the tip of his good leg kick at Mr. Ideal's shin.

Only receiving an oppressed snarl in return, any hope that the tension in his body would get some sort of release by Kunikida's firm grip around his throat, or solidity of his fist against his cheekbone, has disappeared.

It was actually really disappointing. Everyone's demeanor towards him seemed to have changed ever since... well, the incident.

He guesses he's not the only one who feels that he's more fragile now.

Frustrated, he tries to pinch the thin skin on the inside of his wrist. Some days that will do, but not today. His nails are too short to get a proper grip, and even if he had, it just won't be enough.

No, not today and it hasn't really been for a while.

Not since Father came back. Not since he laid almost naked in front of nearly the entire Agency and Chuuya, getting his bandages ripped off his body, exposed as what he really was.

A broken mind in a broken body.

An abused and scared little boy.

An evil and apathetic soul.

He had hoped that the ADA, especially Atsushi, never would have to witness him like that. That person was dead and buried as far as he was concerned.

They had all seen him break the promise he had made Oda.

Watched as he lost his mind and stabbed his own father repeatedly into a bloodied pulp, fueled by such hatred and terror and other emotions he didn't know he even possessed any more.

He had lost count of how many people he had killed a long time ago. How many people's blood laced his scarred hands. But this time was different.

It was a life he didn't want to take, in spite of the fact that there had never been anyone he wanted more to kill.

Father's blood felt different. It was the same blood that flooded through his own veins.

'Shit, everything is itching,' the old scars are scratchy and achy and he needs to do something.

«Didn't I ask you to stop!?» Kunikida spat.

His leg is shaking again. He needs to get out of the office before he does something stupid... like jumping out of the window.

«Sorry,» he harked, retrieving his crutches that's leaning on the side of his desk and places them under his arms. Heavily, he leans into them and carefully tries to place some weight on his injured leg, limping out of the office.

He doesn't see the concerned eyes that's following him out of the room, but he feels them on his back.

"Need to pee," he chirps, waving them off.

The short walk out of the office has already made his leg hurt, which initially is a bad thing. But, also good, since his goal was to distract himself.

He stops and takes a shuddering breath.

It's still not enough to chase away the memories. Every little thing seems to drag him back to all of his past pain these days. There's a lot to choose from and the lack of control that's unraveling in his head starts to prove a bit much right now.

In spite of the fact that he doesn't actually need to use the restroom, he enters it anyway. Some cold water in the face should do.

He intentionally avoids the mirror that hangs above the sink as he turns the knob on the tap. Filling his hands with the ice cold water, he splashes it to his face, waiting a bit, before he repeats the action.

'It's not working', he thinks, sniffling and slowly looking up at the stranger that looks back at him in the mirror. A heavy sigh leaves his lips. He can't stand to look into those exhausted eyes. Only he truly knows all the horrible things that they've seen.

'The boy with a soul as black as his eyes,' he remembers Father saying, as the reflection in the mirror suddenly wears a bandage draped over its eye.

Some days his head just doesn't work right. The well-known images that flicker in his mind, dragging him back to hell, whenever some small, insignificant detail slightly reminds him of something from before.

Sometimes he indulges it. Just lets it run its course.

No, he's not going there. He can't go there. Not now.

Drying his face on his sleeve, he leaves the bathroom and enters the hallway once again.

Even the familiar brick walls in the hallway, that he had no troubles with for the past four years, brings back unpleasant memories.

Specifically, the first time Mori had made Chuuya and himself spar.

Well, sparring usually meant two people attacking and defending themselves. With the two, it was mostly one-wayed back then in the basement at the HQ, thus the brick walls.

It was stupid. Post-traumatic-stress, Chuuya had said once, when he freaked out during a session.

He doesn't have time for this crap, but with the throbbing pains in his body, he can't seem to resist the bricks that lure and capture his mind and takes him away.

Transfixed on the wall, he lets his body slowly descend to the floor, feeling the rough surface scratch his back and tug at his shirt and bandages. His empty glare is watching as a familiar apparition is realizing itself out of his own shadow on the wall.

As always, it's Mori. Dazai has always been a ghost of that man's shadow.

With his eyes closed shut, he falls into the abyss of a fractured beyond.

Phantom pain from the scars that have taken over his body starts to ache. He remembers the story behind every single one of them, even if he hadn't been lucid when they were placed there. But he can clearly recall why, when and where.

Mindlessly he places a hand on the back of his head, where dark brown hair effectively hides countless faded wounds. Slightly raised gashes under thick and unruly locks.

Grabbing a fist of it, he pulls down hard, trying to pull his head away from where this is heading, but it can't be helped...

It didn't matter how light his body was- the wall cracked just the same when being flung to it.

Dazai couldn't breathe. He felt his lungs scream for air while his body trembled in need to inhale. All he could do was cough while sliding down the wall, leaving a trail of crimson wetness behind him as his skull fractured on impact.

Small white dots danced before his eyes and the bile was rising in his throat.

On shaky knees, he got back up to his mockery of a fighting stance. He had received no martial arts training before he got put in the gym by Master Mori.

At first, there was no problems. Chuuya was lightning fast- bouncing up and down the walls, ignoring gravity and attacking while showing no sign of tiring. But, he couldn't touch Dazai without him nullifying his ability.

It took a while before Chuuya caught on, but when he did- he demonstrated his far superior strength with a kick to Dazai's solar plexus, sending him flying.

It didn't help Dazai's inability to protect himself from the physical attacks, that he had been more or less bedridden for the past six months while recovering from the injuries he'd sustained from the 'fall' from the clock tower.

Now, Dazai was mostly fighting to remain conscious. That at least, was something he knew how to do.

The ground felt like it was about to disappear from under him as his hand reached out to lean against the wall for balance and his free hand feasibly covered his eyes from the light that hurt when he looked at it.

Chuuya gave him some time to steady himself purly out of courtesy, until he heard the hard voice of Mori, yelling for him to quit slacking off and keep going.

Once again, Dazai was pinned to the wall, this time by a high-kick to the throat. Dazai's head slammed against the wall and he felt his vision flutter as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

Chuuya was smaller than Dazai in height, but where Dazai was mere skin and bones, Chuuya had already gained a significant amount of muscles while training with Kouyou.

If it hadn't been for the ringing in his ears, he would have heard Chuuya apologize every time he dealt another blow to the frail frame.

A final punch made Dazai fall to his side and crashing hard to the ground. He could bearly register his master's feet appearing in front of him before he went out cold.

Sometime later that evening, Dazai woke up at the infirmary with a raging headache. Mori was present, hovering over the bed with a small smile plastered to his pale face.

Immediately, Dazai felt his body tense in fear, because he knew he had failed, he knew he had done bad, so badbadbadbad he had lost and was hurt again and Mori was going to be mad and
disappointed in him after he had saved him from Father but now he was going to hate him and punish him and...

"I'm sorry," Dazai wimped hoarsely, feeling nauseated and utterly terrible and so, so scared.

But Mori's smile didn't waver.

"Nonsense, Osamu-kun. You did great."

If everything hadn't hurt, Dazai's eyes would have widened and mouth opened in a gasp.

"But, Master, I lost." Feeling embarrassed by his own weak voice, he shut his lips quickly.

"You were never supposed to win, little one."

'Oh,' Dazai thought, without understanding why. But, if there was anything that he actually knew, it was that there didn't need to be a logical reason for anything that happens to him.

Mori's gloved hand stroked him gently over the hair that peeked up over his heavily bandaged head.

"Now, hold still for a minute," the older man said, and retrieved a capsule from his coat-pocket and a hypodermic needle seemed to appear in his hand out of nowhere, sticking it into the small bottle and letting it fill with the pink liquid.

"What's that?" Dazai croaked, watching the syringe warily.

"Just a little something I've been wanting to try," he chittered and leaned over the scrawny body in the bed.

"This is going to feel a bit unpleasant, but bear with me," he smiled as Dazai watched the needle come closer and closer to his eyes.

Minutes later, Dazai's vision was completely gone. Terrified, he lay in bed with his hands raised, ready to swat at anything that moved around him. Tears trailed uncontrollably down his face while his aching head snapped at all and any sound.

"You shouldn't have moved," Mori said patiently and was fiddling with something that Dazai couldn't see. "That might have permanently damaged the sight of your right eye."

"S-sorry," he sulked and desperately clung to Mori's hands as they came close to his face.

"I'm gonna put some gauze on it, it's bleeding a bit," he said mundanely and brushed at the tear that apparently wasn't a tear after all, with a cotton ball, soaked with something that stung.

As the surgical tape was patched to his face, Dazai felt something in his body let go.

He wasn't sure of just what it let go of, but he knew it was something vital. Something that was supposed to be there, but couldn't reside in his shattered body anymore. Like, it was too big for it to contain anymore.

'Control,' he thought. 'I don't even care anymore.'

As a realization, he muttered the words 'I want to die', to himself and truly, honestly meant them.

He didn't actually register that he had said it out loud, until Mori's response. "Oh, Osamu-kun, you're no use to me dead."

'That settles it.'

The morning after, came a knock on his door. Chuuya's voice was heard.

"Dazai?" he said in a dejected voice. "Are you okay?"

Dazai laid with his eyes closed as he heard his future partner grab the room-divider and pull it aside.

"Dazai? What are you doing?"

He didn't answer.

"Dazai?"

Chuuya walked further into the room, peering at the bandaged mess on the bed.

"Shh, I'm dead."

Dazai hardly moved but shut his showing eye even tighter.

"What?" Chuuya's voice came closer.

"I'm dead!" Dazai raised his voice slightly.

"But, you're not."

"Sure I am."

"Why do you wanna be dead?" Chuuya's voice complained.

"Why do you wanna be alive?"

"I don't think I like this game."

"Not a game. I'm dead. I've decided."

"Dazai?"

Not-Chuuya's voice spoke to him from somewhere that had the wrong reverb to be at the Port Mafia infirmary. Dazai suddenly remembered where he was.

"Earth to Osamu Dazai," Fukuzawa's deep voice sounded soft but tainted with a pinch of concern.

"I'm dead," Dazai answered quietly with a faint smirk, as he opened his eyes to look up at the president of the ADA's tall figure.

Fukuzawa was apparently not about to grant that sort of statement any sort of attention. It made him miss Chuuya a little, they hadn't talked in a while.

"My office for a moment, please," he sternly said instead, reaching out a hand to help Dazai up from the floor.

Reluctantly, Dazai accepted the help, winching, as he stretched out his back.

As Fukuzawa turned to walk back into his office, Dazai re-positioned the crutches under his arms to follow. He took two faltering steps before he stopped.

Fukuzawa stood waiting patiently in the doorway, gesturing his hand for Dazai to enter, but Dazai's legs wouldn't abide. The sole's of his shoes seemed to be stuck to the ground and he felt that his breath once again became more restrained.

"Are you coming?" the president asked calmly, opposed to the hard lock in steel grey eyes, surveying Dazai's every movement.

With a disbelieving look in his eyes, Dazai looked down at his feet and then up at Fukuzawa. Slowly, he shook his head.

"No," he whispered in a shallow breath, as the knots in his chest returned and he was once again moving rapidly towards his own personal hurricane.

Fukuzawa took a few steps in Dazai's direction. That resulted in the shaking of the brown-haired man's head turned more insistent and a hand shot up, motioning him to stop.

"No, please don't...come any closer," Dazai stuttered.

A deep shivering breath made his chest ache and it felt like his throat was closing. Grabbing the collar of his shirt, he tried and failed to loosen it to make room for more air. He knew it wouldn't help as his neck was bandaged, but it was worth a try.

"Dazai, I can help..." Fukuzawa tried, approaching as if Dazai was a scared animal, which, wasn't too far from the truth. Dazai cut him off.

"No! I need you to stop! I need... I need everything to just...slow... down, please," he pleaded.

"Nobody is pushing you to do anything," Fukuzawa said calmly. "I think you're having a panic attack."

"You're having a panic attack," Dazai retorted. The stupidity of the statement made him pause for a moment.

Fukuzawa didn't falter.

Dazai chuckled tiredly. "I'm sorry. You're right. I am in fact having a slight panic attack."

"I know," Fukuzawa simply said and motioned his hand for him to come into his office again.

This time, Dazai was able to move. Obediently, he followed the director.

Once inside, he sat heavily on the much more comfortable couch, which was probably the only surface in the entirety of the ADA offices that he hadn't napped on.

He needed to do something about that.

"I've made arrangements for you to start therapy," Fukuwzawa stated abruptly.

Dazai laughed. Loud. Too loud.

"I appreciate your concern, chief. But, no. No." He looked at his superior, almost expecting someone to jump out from their hiding place and announce that this was all a part of a hidden camera act.

Fukuzawa was a rock. Didn't move, only looked at him with those eyes that could probably cut through steel if they wanted.

"I don't need therapy. I... I'm perfectly balanced. Anyone can have a panic attack. I'm fine. I'm good. G-O-O-D, good."

Still, nothing.

"I mean... shit happens, right?"

Fukuzawa needs to start talking, he needs to stop.

"It's probably just a phase."

Dazai, stop it.

"I've never needed therapy before, why would I need it now? I mean, it's not like I'm having a nervous meltdown over here, it's just a bit of restless legs you know, sometimes you just get it and don't realize it and then-"

Oh God, please make it stop.

"-Kunikida get's mad and if someone needs therapy, let's take a look at him, I mean, O.C.D station next, am I right?- Please say something."

"Your first appointment is on Friday."

To be continued.